


Neurology

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Falling In Love, M/M, May/December Relationship, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Nurse Aziraphale and Dr Crowley try to... They try very hard to have dinner.He descended upon the Eden neurological rehabilitation centre like a benevolent storm. His secretary is a fierce young person with black hair. They go by Bea .It took them mere days to get rid of everyone involved with Dr Gabriel's abuse and to let the rooms fill with chatter and arguing and life.Aziraphale welcomed it, he did. He's one of the most important witnesses in the process against Dr Gabriel after all, but he still doesn't quite understand what is so wrong about calming a patient."I want them alive," Dr Crowley roared during the first staff meeting. "I want them alive and thriving."Aziraphale isn't ready to admit to it, but he both fears and admires Dr Crowley.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 206
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sani86](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/gifts), [MostDismalFeldsparkle (Most_Dismal_Feldsparkle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Most_Dismal_Feldsparkle/gifts).



"Dr Crowley!" Aziraphale calls. "Dr Crowley!" He repeats.

Dr Crowley, a tall, lean man who saunters instead of walking and wears sunglasses indoors, stops with some exasperation. 

"Yes, nurse Aziraphale," he concedes. He's wearing his white coat like a knight would his armour - he appreciates the honour of the garment but he doesn't find it particularly comfortable. Since most of Dr Crowley is black clothes and auburn hair, Aziraphale can commiserate. 

"You must have made a mistake," Aziraphale says gently, pointing at the notepad in his hand. He's an old… fish. Nurse.

And Dr Crowley is young, handsome and definitely a revolutionary. He has a picture of Marx in his office. Marx and Marie Curie. Go figure. 

"Oh, how could I?" Dr Crowley retorts. He takes off his sunglasses, revealing eerie yellow eyes with bilateral coloboma.

"Here… Ms Simons. Her dose is supposed to be… different. If you changed it, I need to know…"

"Last time I checked, Ms Simons is not a horse." Dr Crowley puts his glasses back on. 

"She's not, indeed. But… she's been known to be… aggressive when…"

"Dr Gabriel is about to stand trial for abuse of his patients," Dr Crowley practically hisses. 

"I… I have been working here…"

"Almost your entire career. I'm well aware of it. You're one of the few redeeming qualities of this institution. There's a difference between overmedicating a patient and helping them. If you're so bothered by Ms Simons regaining her free will and character, then do me a favour and fuck off. She doesn't need to be put into a slumber."

With that Dr Crowley leaves. 

***

He descended upon the Eden neurological rehabilitation centre like a benevolent storm. His secretary is a fierce young person with black hair. They go by  _ Bea _ . 

It took them mere days to get rid of everyone involved with Dr Gabriel's abuse and to let the rooms fill with chatter and arguing and  _ life.  _

Aziraphale welcomed it, he did. He's one of the most important witnesses in the process against Dr Gabriel after all, but he still doesn't quite understand what is so wrong about calming a patient. 

"I want them alive," Dr Crowley roared during the first staff meeting. "I want them alive and thriving."

Aziraphale isn't ready to admit to it, but he both fears and admires Dr Crowley. 

***

Aziraphale lives not far from the Eden centre. His is a small cottage, filled to the brim with books and tea and knick-knacks. He loves cooking and reading and good wine. 

He's a merciful man who's been trying to adapt his notions of mercy to the views of Dr Gabriel, however far against his own principles those views were. But he's not a young man anymore… Fuck, he's so not young. 

And Dr Crowley is like March - cold and windy and full of the promise of spring. Aziraphale feels like December in his company. 

He likes arguing with the patients, no, he likes talking to them and getting to their souls, despite the stereotypes and disorders and illness. He dearly loves Ms Simons and he's glad to be able to talk to her again. He adores Mr Shadwell who's an old bigot but somehow has a heart of gold. He likes Mme Tracy who's a treasure and has multiple sclerosis. He likes, loves them all, and it's… lovely seeing them turning back to their lively, unconquerable selves. 

Aziraphale is terrified to realise that he let Dr Gabriel talk him into abusing them  _ for the greater good.  _

***

"I'm proud of you," Dr Crowley says one morning. "I really am. You… it must have taken a lot of courage to stand up to Gabriel." 

Dr Crowley prepares himself a cup of coffee and sits across Aziraphale in the staff room. Aziraphale's lunch is occupying most of the table, but Dr Crowley doesn't seem to mind. 

Still, Aziraphale tries to hide his homemade tiramisu. 

"Is this tiramisu?" Dr Crowley eyes the box in awe. 

"Well… yes… I know I shouldn't but…"

"Why shouldn't you?" Dr Crowley frowns. His eyebrows are as sinful as his hips, and those hips need a few lectures on basic anatomy. 

"I'm… soft?"

"Damn right you are! Don't need any… burnt toasts here! May I have a bite?" Dr Crowley grins. His grin is sinful too, Aziraphale has to admit. 

"Sure… Ehm… help yourself, my dear."

***

In all honesty, it took Aziraphale quite a few years to stand up to Gabriel. It took some terrible deaths. It took some soul-searching. After all, Gabriel was a doctor and Aziraphale… he was just a nurse. 

Dr Crowley treats him… He's not polite, that's for sure, but he's generous with his knowledge and experience, he takes time to explain things, he seems to have learned from that encounter with Aziraphale, so each time he changes a medication, readjusts a dose, suggests a way to talk to a certain patient, he's quick to share it with the staff, be it doctors or nurses. 

He raises Aziraphale's salary, doubling it. 

"Trying to bribe me, dear boy?"

"Oh, definitely. Dinner?" 

Oh, this young doctor is trouble and Aziraphale doesn't like trouble. He's in enough trouble as it is. 

***

The place is alive. 

Aziraphale feels young, foolish, idealistic every time when he's getting ready for work. He packs his food more meticulously, makes sure to prepare a separate container of a cake for Dr Crowley, which he doesn't expect Dr Crowley to notice, but… he's so thin, dear boy. He's so passionate and he's so fiercely compassionate. 

"Hyper-empath," Bea says once when Aziraphale sees them forcing some water down that pale, long throat. "He… relates too much. Idiot." They huff, but Aziraphale sees that Bea has been crying.

***

Dr Crowley spends much time with each patient, in or out. He talks to them and he listens to them and he's… he's genuinely curious. Aziraphale has always thought that curiosity towards a patient was a form of… 

Oh he doesn't know. He has been taught that curiosity was sinful, that mercy had to be lacking in questions. 

Getting to know Dr Crowley better, Aziraphale comes to realise that there's no mercy without curiosity.

***

"Dinner?" Dr Crowley asks again.

"Why?" Aziraphale asks. He's tired and he's old. He's not handsome, he's not special. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He's boring. 

"Well… I might be… fancying you a lot." Dr Crowley admits. "Bea said it's alright because of all those… unconventional dynamics, you know? Like, I'm technically your boss, but you're much older. Not that I mind! You also make a wicked tiramisu!"

"I hardly can make for a doctor's wife," Aziraphale chuckles. He's bitter. He's so bitter Dr Crowley's black coffee is practically sweet. 

"You're tired. I'll give you a lift." 

Crowley drives Aziraphale to his cottage, and the drive is spent in silence. 

"I… the first time I saw you, I thought, what an angel! Now get the fuck out of my car… I mean… I'm sorry. I was inappropriate. I'll get better."

Aziraphale knows him well enough to reply, "I'm sure you will."


	2. Chapter 2

Gabriel's defence tries to drag Aziraphale down with the dishonoured doctor, so they try to discredit his testimony at every turn. Aziraphale is so used to the things being… far from desirable that he's very calm about it all. 

Yet, Aziraphale's lawyer, a frighteningly bright young woman who really  _ was  _ named Anathema but goes by Ana, and her helpless, witless, smitten assistant Newt are bubbling with fury. 

Gabriel's defence are homophobic bastards, they are ableist and they are racist. Aziraphale isn't sure why their firm isn't called  _ Prejudice, Disdain and sons _ . Aziraphale is used to it all, immune to it, as he thinks, but it's just the sort of dull, chronic pain that can be ignored with the help of tea and books.

Those lawyers try to insinuate that Aziraphale is a sexual predator who's too bitter about Gabriel's devout Christian refusal of his advances. 

Ana calls Dr Crowley to the stand. 

As far as testimonies go, it's a bad testimony. 

As far as lectures on the history of mental health care go, it's bloody brilliant. 

Dr Crowley talks and talks, he has the whole court enraptured. Sandy, as Gabriel refers to his lawyer, interrupts Dr Crowley rudely.

"I can't follow your train of thought!" He huffs. 

"Well, you're not supposed to follow a train," Dr Crowley reasons. "You either catch it or miss it." And he keeps talking. Thankfully, he's getting closer to the topic in question, which is, he praises Aziraphale, his kindness and honesty and courage. And tiramisu. 

"Do you have an inappropriate relationship with the nurse Fell?" Sandy asks. 

"Not to my knowledge," Dr Crowley replies honestly. "I asked him out to dinner once, but he refused."

The judge gasps in horror but quickly disguises it as a coughing fit. 

"Do you feel that you've been coerced into that invitation?" Sandy asks. 

"Definitely." Crowley smirks. "He's a very handsome man, and I blame his looks for…" He remembers himself. 

Ana looks equally terrified and amused. Aziraphale can't look at anyone or anything other than his shoes. They are good shoes, he can certainly be forgiven for admiring them. 

"Actually, you know what? You're putting this entire… spectacle up in order to discredit someone you don't deserve to be in the same room with. Nurse Fell is a professional of the highest degree. He's a compassionate and kind man who doesn't expect everyone to behave the same way." There's another rant coming up, so Crowley is swiftly chased away. 

***

Tracy and Shadwell begin a peculiar…  _ friendship _ , in which Shadwell calls Tracy harlot and Tracy giggles. In which Tracy is slowly losing the control of her limbs and Shadwell is losing any semblance of control over his Tourette. They have an understanding, and it's beautiful. Aziraphale thinks that they are making up for the lost time, for all the years when they were sedated and couldn't even make eyes at each other.

They seem happy, and they want a date, so Crowley asks Aziraphale to help him set it up. 

"I know nothing about dates, unless they want a date palm… Do you think it would make for a good setting? A date palm… Have I told you…"

And there's a long, chaotic speech about the date palms. They can survive fire, angel, here's a list of all the places where you can find the best dates, angel, is a dozen of roses too much or too little, angel, how about you cook them a cake, angel…

It's a train that begs to be caught and Aziraphale makes every effort to miss it. 

He misses it dearly. 

***

Dr Crowley brings in two new occupational therapists - Hastur and Ligur. The former is grumpy, the latter is suave. Nurse Michael is smitten with Ligur. 

Yes, I intend to introduce three characters in one paragraph and you can't stop me. No archive warnings apply, ok? Graphic depictions of stylistic violence can be very gratifying. Just ask Joyce. 

Dr Crowley loves occupational therapy with passion. He tries to take part in as many sessions as his schedule and Bea allow. Turns out, Dr Crowley can't crochet even if his life depends on it, can't cut out snowflakes, isn't allowed anywhere near sharp objects, yes, scissors included. Bea tells the smoking staff that Dr Crowley had to be dragged away from becoming a surgeon because in the end he was the one cut open, not to mention that Dr Crowley tends to faint the moment he sees blood, especially if it's his own, which Aziraphale can't help agreeing with. 

It's becoming more and more obvious to everyone that Bea is Crowley's caregiver. They would kill for him and they would do it slowly. They had to be dragged away from becoming a surgeon too. 

Aziraphale thinks, with horror, that if the Gabriels of the world had their way, Crowley would have been one more sedated half-corpse in this very institution. Instead he's its head, despite the fact that his own head has a tendency of being somewhere in the vicinity of Alpha Centauri sometimes. 

***

Aziraphale makes a habit of making Crowley lunch and Crowley makes a habit of giving Aziraphale the time of his life every time they share said lunch. Crowley has none of Aziraphale's appreciation for food, but he admires it all the same. Aziraphale can't say how Crowley manages to taste anything when he seems to just swallow everything whole and hibernate like a sated snake afterwards. 

"My dear, no one eats like that. You need to… to savour each bite." Aziraphale can't find it in himself to truly chide Crowley, but he can't help trying.

"I savour it! All together!" Crowley protests, showing Aziraphale an empty lunchbox. 

"Dear boy, I haven't seen you chew!"

"Well… I do it quickly!"

"You chew too fast for me, Crowley," Aziraphale sighs. 

***

Tracy and Shadwell have their magical date, a date palm present of course. Crowley makes sure they have a room for themselves and keeps their individual rooms unoccupied, just in case. 

Shadwell takes to carrying Tracy around. She doesn't like wheelchairs, but she likes being swept off her feet that can't hold her anymore, but Shadwell doesn't listen to it. He carries her around, anywhere she wants. He has so much pent up energy and aggressive affection, and Tracy is hungry for some. 

Bea offers to drug a priest and Crowley offers to drag a priest, but Aziraphale just finds a good priest, a lively, funny, feisty vicar of a nearby village, and she marries Tracy and Shadwell one morning. 

"They don't have much time left," Aziraphale muses as Crowley is driving him back to his cottage. It's a very short drive, Aziraphale wouldn't skip it. He has been missing the train dearly, after all. 

"It's relative," Crowley shrugs. "To quote Wilde, beauty fades, limbs fail, feelings rot, but what the fuck, angel? Being happy is the act of utmost disobedience sometimes."

"Or blasphemy," Aziraphale whispers. 

"Well, that too. Nothing's wrong with either. Fight them on the beaches, fight them bitches. No Greek god can stop a human from being happy. They died out because they were very pissed off. There you go, angel."

And there Aziraphale goes, but he follows Crowley's car with his eyes. The young doctor is impossible, infuriating. Aziraphale can't wait to see him again. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dr Crowley is watching nurse Aziraphale administer an injection. 

While Dr Crowley is all long and elongated, nurse Aziraphale is, in Crowley's elongated opinion, perfect. Dr Crowley is a man of science, so he has to provide evidence. Here it is. 

Aziraphale's hands are soft and caring. These hands might not spoil any piano with their touch (a very hot turn of Dr Crowley's discourse, _ngk_ ), but they are tender, they are bioluminescent with tenderness. All of Aziraphale is bioluminescent with tenderness and softness, and round shoulders and the swell of his belly - yet the crinkles around Aziraphale's eyes (blue, so blue, a blue whale level of blueness) when he smiles could make Eros' arrows blush with envy, such is their sharpness, and Crowley isn't allowed around sharp objects…

Dr Crowley sighs. 

Aziraphale's touch is gentle. The patient is smiling at him as Aziraphale fucking injects him, that's so peculiar, and it's getting curioser and curioser by the moment. 

Aziraphale smiles at the patient too. And he's fucking administering a fucking injection, how fucking twisted is that?

Aziraphale's hair is soft too. It's like a cloud in his head, but it's a marble cloud, if you get what Crowley means, and if you don't, it's alright because Crowley doesn't know what he's saying or thinking quite often, poor dear.

Also, Aziraphale calls him _dear_ . _My dear. Dear boy._

But hair. Aziraphale's hair is so curly and unruly. It's white, silver and gold mixed up together, or it's yellow gold and white gold. It must be gold, Aziraphale _is_ gold. 

And bioluminescent. 

When Aziraphale looks Crowley's way, there's music which might be stress-induced tinnitus, but Crowley is a romantic and bear with him, for fuck's sake! 

Actually, there's a lot to bear. That's why it's a bear. In Crowley's case, a koala. Or a grizzly with proprioception problems. 

See, there's that theory that eukaryotes evolved by kind of consuming, mmmm, swallowing, hmmmm, enveloping prokaryotes in their soft and wet heat, oh dear, has anyone seen a deer, pardon, fuck, in short, the whole cellular biology thingie, you know, the one where a cell has parts and most importantly a nucleus, all this jazz evolved by some horny, scratch that, opportunitistic prokaryote enveloped another prokaryote in its soft wet heat, which was safe, sane and consensual and was a result of one prokaryote spotting another prokaryote and thinking _holy shit, this is the hottest organism this side of molecular structure_ , so they united and as it is many relationships, they took up different chores, you know, and one prokaryote turned into the nucleus of another. It was very hot for that time, all other organisms were scandalised. I'll tell you more, cyanobacteria were so scandalised they fucked the whole atmosphere and filled it with oxygen to the brim, which was both very nice and very Victorian of them, at least for those lifeforms that were anaerobic. 

The science in Dr Crowley's head isn't terribly accurate right now, but again, bear with that skinny bear. 

Aziraphale turned into Crowley's nucleus, becoming impossibly important, like… like the lack of oxygen for anaerobic organisms. 

"You're up to no good, my dear," Aziraphale teases, approaching Crowley with a smile and those crinkles around those eyes. 

"I always am," Crowley teases back with a shrug. They have been working together for long enough to be teasing. Aziraphale enjoys teasing Crowley and vice versa. They are crucial to each other's good humour, Crowley thinks. 

And perhaps, just perhaps, it's good that when Crowley says _you grew on me like mold on Gorgonzola, and your eyes are just as blue_ , Aziraphale doesn't know that Crowley is flirting, proposing marriage and admitting to yearning, all at the same time. 

Sometimes, though, Aziraphale looks back at Crowley with those damn blue eyes and says that he likes Gorgonzola. 

Crowley tends to choke on another delicious lunch during such moments. 

Oh, and don't get him started about lunches! Aziraphale eats… he… ehm… he envelops his food in that soft wet welcoming heat and Crowley feels… and feels… and feels. 

Aziraphale makes hot chocolate for the entire staff a few times a week. Crowley feels like chocolate melting in the soft warm wet enveloping heat of milk. 

***

The food in Eden is… well, it's not so good, let's say? It's disgusting and it's Crowley's battlefield, upon which he's ready to die. 

There are no funds for better catering, but there are several people among Dr Crowley's patients who love cooking, do it well and, as the world puts it, can't handle a job, which means they have special needs, no, they need some empathy and understanding and a kitchen of their own. 

What Crowley's trying to build costs more than that fucking catering, but it's something, it gives those people a purpose, a job, a place to go, you name it, if you can. 

Aziraphale lights up like a bioluminescent organism he is, when Crowley shares this idea with him. He's a kind man, he's such a kind and caring man, and he talks a few local farmers into a bit of charity. 

It helps that one of the farmers' children is among Dr Crowley's patients, of course, but no one needs to know. 

Well, and Dr Crowley gives up on half his salary. It's okay, it is. Crowley's mothers are both psychiatrists - and Crowley's eternal opponents in the endless discussion on psychiatry vs neurology, and they are both successful and so fucking proud of their kid that they can support him, as a treat. He shouldn't get used to it, they say, but well, everyone involved knows that everyone is quite used to it, especially since Crowley's teenage years were spent obsessively repairing bicycles and, unknowingly, bringing quite an income. He doesn't know. Or he does. He enjoyed himself, fixing bicycles and listening to Queen on the loop while doing so. Best not to dwell on it, for everyone's sanity. 

_Bicycle! Bicycle!_

Now you have it too. Misery and echolalia love company. 

***

"How the hell did you make it work?" Aziraphale asks one day watching quite a lot of happy people doing what they love and enjoying the product of their labour. 

"Hm… A little… financial… miracle. Of my own." Crowley is a fucking ginger, so he blushes like the Red mountains near Eilat. It's a very fetching shade of pink, oh, sorry, they're having a moment here. 

"Really, my dear? What devious scheme did you get involved in?" Aziraphale is trying to stab Crowley repeatedly with those damn fucking crinkles, wrinkles, fuck!

"Nothing. Ehm. Nothing you should be worried about, angel!" Crowley looks over and around. "Oh, look, soup!" And there he's, off to eat some soup. 

Bea crouches up to Aziraphale, murderous intent in their eyes and matchmaking plans in their heart.

"He gave up half his salary for this, you know."

Aziraphale shudders. Bea is creepy or he's just very aroused by the thought of Crowley being so… kind. And lovely. And young, beautifully, endlessly young, and devouring red lentil soup right now. 

"There. That looks. Smitten and confused. Keep it!" Bea snaps a picture and disappears just as swiftly as they appeared. 

***

Bea shoves a picture right into Crowley's sharp nose. 

"Oh, look, it's Aziraphale!" Crowley says. He's been doing some very important paper work, and it took Bea much time to get him concentrated but they gets bored easily too. 

"Wouldn't have guessed. Look, that's his face when he's drooling over you. Drooling, Crowley. He could drool on your pillow."

They feels guilty immediately, because Crowley's face is sad and hopeless. 

"He doesn't… he thinks it's inappropriate."

"Well, he'll retire some day. Then you can, you know…"

"He's so…" and Crowley starts talking about date palms again. It's Crowley-speak for some fucking yearning. Bea knows they brought it upon themself, so they sigh and listen. 

There are still some things they doesn't know about date palms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early update because I needed to mention Goethe - and this is my notion of a slow burn, you see, so I did well and managed three chapters without mentioning him.   
> Besides, there will be smut in the evening.

Between lunches and mold-inspired declarations of love, Crowley and Aziraphale tend to share a bottle of wine here and there.

The first time it happens, Aziraphale is just after a disastrous date and he wants someone who knows and accepts him, so he's being selfish and foolish and texts Crowley. 

Aziraphale's date is still mocking him loudly when Crowley saunters into the restaurant, young, red-haired, wearing sunglasses indoors and being unbearably beautiful, and puts a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Hey, baby. I see this one here is not up for our threesome plans. Told you, angel, you should use that app." And he whisks Aziraphale out of the place, leaving the bloody fool of a man to set the bill, and drives Aziraphale home. 

Aziraphale invites him in for a glass of wine. 

That's how it begins. 

It doesn't happen often enough, for Crowley's tastes, but Crowley can never get enough of Aziraphale, of that softness and kindness and care.

***

Crowley is drunk, although little wine has been consumed, and he's mildly aware of saying something…

"Are you quoting Goethe, dear boy? Really!"

"I might be!" Crowley lifts his head off a very comfy sofa and glares at Aziraphale.

For a while, they are silent. 

"You know, angel, old age isn't sinful. It's a thing of beauty, actually, especially if you consider how relative the very notion of old age is."

"Is there a destination for this train of thought, dear boy?"

"Destination!" Crowley huffs indignantly. "When you're on a train, it's a pleasure… Did I ever tell you about that time in Weimar?"

Crowley did tell him, and a few times, too, but there's that married sweetness to hearing the same story over and over again, that's the way to do it for a gene to be firmly embedded in one's DNA.

Crowley tells this story again, and yet again Aziraphale can see Crowley, barely twenty years old, yearning for Goethe and a train on a snowed down platform…

"What I mean to say is… that date of yours. He's been old since he could remember himself. Someone really messed up with the first two years of his life… oh no, I'm making you commiserate with that fool who thought he could mock you. And on my watch!"

There's no way Crowley can drive home, and there's no way Crowley sleeps in Aziraphale's bed, in Aziraphale's arms. 

That night Aziraphale doesn't sleep. He wakes Crowley at four in the morning and reminds him to drive home. Crowley does, silently and far too sober for Aziraphale's liking. 

***

And sometimes they sit and drink in silence. 

At times like that Aziraphale tells Crowley about Gabriel. 

There's no sexual abuse, thank whomever for small mercies, but there's a lot of fury, anger, overdose, overmedicating… 

"I couldn't disobey," Aziraphale argues, and Crowley knows that feeling, and he doesn't blame Aziraphale. "I… I couldn't. But I recorded it, I recorded everything, and once the silence, that forced silence became unbearable, I took it all to the police. I didn't trust them, my dear. Gabriel seemed to be everywhere, but I couldn't… I couldn't bear it anymore!" 

"It's cruel of you to expect me not to hug you after that," Crowley replies, but he doesn't hug Aziraphale. "You did the right thing. You're an angel. You can't do anything else." 

"You're too drunk to think clearly."

"No, angel. I'm afraid I'm too… whatever. Doesn't matter. Let me make you some hot chocolate!"

Aziraphale lets him, although he knows that he will have to put down a fire five minutes into Crowley's so called cooking. 

"Fuck! Angel! Your stove is attacking me!"

***

Aziraphale isn't that old, he isn't, but he would be old for Crowley even in his younger years, because Crowley doesn't care for… for anything, really. 

It's just like his name, really. 

"Anthony J. Crowley," he says drunkenly. 

"What does J stand for?"

"Not a clue. Probably, just a J, really. Might be Joseph, though. Oh, I'd love it!"

***

They work well together. They don't work together often, since Aziraphale made it clear that it would be inappropriate, but when they end up together, they work well. Crowley has the knowledge and will, Crowley is stubborn - and Aziraphale, he has the kindness and calm, even if and when both are skills and not what he actually feels. 

Aziraphale doesn't know what he actually feels. 

***

"I thought… no, I wanted to hide, but it seemed wise, dear boy. I never disobeyed… but I couldn't bear it." 

Aziraphale can feel Crowley's hands on his shoulders, and Crowley's lips - on his forehead. 

"Angel, you did what you could do. No one can demand heroism from anyone! You saved them, angel. You saved them all."

Aziraphale's heart has indeed been old for as long as Aziraphale could remember himself, but it flutters at Crowley's words like some… something that's awakened by the spring. He can't help listening to that young and irreverent voice that's calling to him, that's demanding more and more and more, and there's nothing that Aziraphale wouldn't give up for this voice, nothing but his own notions of integrity and propriety. 

"Whatever you think and feel, angel, it's valid."

"Even if it breaks your heart?"

"Even if it breaks my heart. I wouldn't have any heart, were it not for you."

It should be different, it should be so that Aziraphale stays up and Crowley falls asleep, but one night it's just so easily the opposite - it's Aziraphale falling asleep in Crowley's arms, it's Crowley who whispers sweet microbiology nothings, it's Aziraphale that wakes up alone, it's Crowley who's left while Aziraphale was asleep. 

And Aziraphale thinks then, for the first time in forever, that it's unbearable. It should be different, oh so different, on so many levels, and it's in Aziraphale's power to make it so. 

He showers - and it's good, oh, it's so good. 

He eats and makes his morning tea - and yes, yes, yes, he's alive, he knows how to live and he can learn how to love. 

He has his lunch with Crowley. 

He stays after his shift is over, and he walks into Crowley's office late in the evening. He sighs.

"My dear?" He calls.

"Angel?" Crowley looks up at him, that shortsighted, yellow-eyed, beautiful man. 

"Fuck propriety. Fuck everything. I want you."

And Crowley follows Aziraphale to his own car, Crowley drives Aziraphale to his own home, Crowley kisses Aziraphale before they step out of the car. 


	5. Phagocytosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the smut

It might build mode tension to start this chapter with  _ they walk inside the house side by side, their fingers barely touching _ , but  _ they  _ is my pronoun, so it's different. 

Besides, we're not talking about some  _ they _ , we're talking about two particular and very peculiar people. 

Therefore it's Aziraphale and Crowley who walk inside Crowley's house side by side, their fingers barely touching, twitching every few moments to feel the answering twitch of the other's hand. 

Crowley's house is dark, because it's fucking night and because it's pallette is dark; it's spacious and almost empty, the ceiling is dark enough to bear a promise of a thunderstorm, and thunderstorms are great for cuddling closer and whispering to each other  _ shhh, I'm here, I've got you _ . 

Crowley stops in the middle of what might be the living room and faces Aziraphale. Takes his hand. "Angel…"

"Crowley," Aziraphale replies. 

"I want to kiss you again, angel."

"I'd rather take this to the bedroom," Aziraphale says hastily. He's an old man, in his opinion, and even if he weren't, his knees are about to give away. He blushes, afraid that Crowley is about to tease him with the maddening and infuriating  _ eager, aren't you?  _ but Crowley leads Aziraphale to the bedroom without a word, his hold on Aziraphale's hand is easy and calm and so soft. 

"You want light, angel?"

"No. Not if I can help it."

"Alright," Crowley whispers right into Aziraphale's lips. "Soft…." He adds. "Beautiful." He kisses Aziraphale's face slowly, and could have thought that Crowley is capable of anything but fast and frantic?

Aziraphale plays with Crowley's hair. It's soft and beautiful too. 

There's that strange coolness when people just get undressed and feel each other's skin, get acquainted with each other's body temperature. Crowley lies down, Aziraphale is over him, and they touch. Crowley is angular and fragile, Aziraphale is sturdy and gentle. The air between them gets warmer from their breath. 

Aziraphale kisses Crowley's hand and guides it downwards, where his cock hovers over Crowley's. There might be some space-worthy gravity there and far more self-restraint than space cares to be. Crowley's other hand touches, no, presses against Aziraphale's chest dusted with white hair, just as bright as the rest of the man.

"Are you alright like this?" Crowley asks. Aziraphale realises that he's leaning on his hands and knees, and… and he wants it so. Wants to be a cloud over Crowley, a promise of rain, of thunder, of  _ shh, I've got you, I'm here. _

"Yes… yes, my darling. Touch me… touch… touch us both."

Crowley takes them both in his hand, Aziraphale places his own palm over Crowley's. They move together, broken moans, sweet gasps…

"Angel… angel, can I stay the night?" Crowley asks. 

"Darling, this is your house."

"Really?" Crowley doesn't take his eyes off of Aziraphale - that's how gravity works. 

"I swear." 

Aziraphale's head feels too heavy, it falls on Crowley's shoulder. 

Crowley keeps caressing them both. "Good? Is… is it good..?" 

"Yes, darling, it's perfect."

In all honesty, it's a little dry, but there's sweetness to it, it's not rough, not painful, their precum leaks between their cocks, smoothing the movement, the slide against each other.

"Darling… you're so sweet, my darling, so beautiful, and I wanted you for so long." Aziraphale kisses Crowley's shoulder, nips at his neck. 

"Me too," Crowley responds with a cry in his voice. His hand moves from Aziraphale's chest and over his shoulder to his back. Just his palm on Aziraphale's back makes the man whimper. 

"You… you protect me, my dear, don't you?"

"Always and as long as I'm allowed." Crowley strokes them slowly, carefully. He's so lost to it and to the sight of Aziraphale above him that he notices his climax with a surprised  _ oh _ . Aziraphale follows him immediately and they lie together, sticky and wet and a bit uncomfortable. 

Aziraphale rolls over, Crowley does so too so that he faces the older man and touches his face. "You're beautiful, angel… you're so beautiful. Can you stay the night?"

"Do you… do you think it's appropriate?"

"I thought we were past that." Crowley smiles, kisses Aziraphale's nose. 

"What if… Gabriel will destroy you! Oh my dear, what have I done?"

Crowley holds Aziraphale, briefly uses the blanket to wipe their bellies. "Gabriel is locked up for life, angel. He won't come for either of us. If he did, though, I'd choose you anyway." Crowley shrugs easily, shrugs all Aziraphale's worries off, pushes them somewhere into the thunderous ceiling and heavy darkness. 

"It's you, angel, it's you, you, you," Crowley promises with another kiss. 

"I'm… I…" Aziraphale hides in the crook of Crowley's neck. "I… it was… it was beautiful and tender. You must want more, though, and it's been… it's been years, and I…"

"Angel," Crowley calls, playing with Aziraphale's hair. "I… ok, I'm fucking speechless. You don't owe me anything, you know? Do you… do you want… will you let me date you? Take you to dinners? Theatres? Museums maybe? Can I take you to shower in the morning? It'll feel so good, angel, hot water and I have lavender soap. I can make you soup… No, wait, better not. Would you make us soup?"

"Shhhh, darling, it's alright… it's alright, my sweet." Aziraphale pushes Crowley's head down to his shoulder and kisses the young doctor's ear. 

"I want to talk, though. What if… you won't disappear, right?"

"I'm too fat for that, my dear." 

"What is your opinion on spanking?" Crowley asks, lifting his head.

"I don't like it." Aziraphale frowns in the dark. 

"Ok, but I'll need to do something when you say shit like this. I don't even know where to start, and your sentence wasn't that long even… you know what, forget about it, angel. You… you be hugged and hug me and we'll sleep, ok?"

"You must be exhausted, darling…" Aziraphale cradles Crowley closer, kisses everything in the vicinity of his lips. "You sleep, my dear boy. You rest."

"Just a bit… just a bit, angel, just a bit. Won't… won't cook."

***

Aziraphale is awakened by Crowley's shrieks coming from the kitchen. He sighs - it might just be a happy sigh. 

"Darling?" He calls. 

More shrieks follow, interspersed with curses that might make Shadwell blush. Aziraphale stumbles from the bed and into the kitchen. 

"Crowley… oh, dearest, is your stove misbehaving too?" Aziraphale holds Crowley from behind, somehow oblivious to his nakedness. There's not much smoke, he realises. 

"I wanted to make you breakfast," Crowley says with embarrassment. He turns in Aziraphale's arms… "Oh… oh, angel, you're naked. Can I do something about it?"

"Lend me some pants?" Aziraphale smirks and blushes. 

"Take you to shower? I couldn't make you tea or food, but shower…"

Shower talk turns into the way string theory applies to canalization, somehow. Aziraphale decides that being naked around Crowley is lovely, so he busies himself with breakfast. His next shift is in the evening and all through the night. 

"I'll pick you up in the morning and take you to bed!" Crowley swears around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. "Just for sleep!"

Aziraphale laughs and makes Crowley eat some salad. Crowley finds it unbearably hot and tender. It leads to a rant about flower language, somehow. 

"Oh my darling boy, what am I to do with you?" Aziraphale hums. Crowley slips and almost falls in the shower. Aziraphale thinks he's never seen anything as beautiful as the sight of Crowley in the flurry of his endless limbs, while trying to smoothly flirt with Aziraphale by way of gems like _those suds suit your chest_ _hair_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's soft. And microbiology. And there's a lot of ironing.

Aziraphale considers himself a romantic. Just like many people who have never been on the receiving end of big romantic gestures, he yearns for them, or so he has been thinking. 

When he's watching Crowley planning their first date as if it were a military campaign or a research proposal, he thinks that he's been wrong yet again, because in Aziraphale's current opinion, staying at home with Crowley counts as a date. It counts as a date when they eat takeaway or something Aziraphale cooked and watch TV without paying any attention to what's happening on the screen, if the opportunity to gaze at each other presents itself - and it does. 

Crowley keeps working on their first date even after a month of staying at each other's places and falling asleep in each other's arms, after a month of careful lovemaking that doesn't move anywhere further than handjobs and kisses but feels tectonic, both in pace and impact. 

During that month Aziraphale receives a lot of plants in pretty pots. _Can't give you flowers, angel, they wilt too soon, and this geranium will last almost forever, angel!_

For all his hopeless cooking, Crowley is the god of laundry, and when he does Aziraphale's laundry, his clothes are soft and smell so nice and fit even better than before. Crowley irons like a god too, if any deity ever bothered to iron their clothes, but it seems like a divine gift to Aziraphale. 

And Crowley doesn't know left from right, but he knows where he's geographically. Aziraphale suspects there's a bribe involved in the fact of Crowley having a valid driving license.

Or magic. 

Or exorcism. 

Probably hypnosis. 

One of Crowley's mothers hates the very notion of hypnosis, but she's ironically brilliant at it. Aziraphale isn't ready to meet either of Crowley's mothers. They are legendary and scary. Besides, Crowley has a standing argument with them over the dichotomy of neurology and psychiatry, of which Aziraphale has heard far too much. 

And Crowley brings Aziraphale the first daffodils - in a pot, of course, and therefore in February, so they are not really the first daffodils, but they are the first Aziraphale doesn't kill almost immediately. 

And Crowley irons Aziraphale's socks. Aziraphale doesn't understand it, but his darling boy looks beautiful bent over the ironing board, so focused, so meticulous. They are just socks and he's ironing them, and he's doing so with a face worthy of Goya working on one of his etchings. 

"Darling, why are you ironing my socks?" Aziraphale asks one day, as Crowley is planning their first date three months into whatever it is they have, probably marriage. 

"They are warm this way," Crowley replies. Aziraphale catches a glimpse of Crowley's work - a list of restaurants, getaways, hotels, spas and one knitting workshop. Aziraphale makes a mental note to cross the last one out when Crowley is asleep, because Crowley and sharp objects shouldn't be anywhere near each other.

"But they are not warm when I put them on, darling," Aziraphale reminds Crowley. He runs his fingers through Crowley's hair and down his jaw. Aziraphale's darling boy is beautiful and unique and just Aziraphale's. Aziraphale is old and wise enough to love him and never let him go. 

"Fuck. Second law of thermodynamics. How did I forget about that?"

Aziraphale wants to roll his eyes, but it's a learned pattern, not a real feeling. The real feeling, the real thing is that he pushes Crowley down on the sofa and kisses him and strokes him to a breathless completion. Aziraphale is very smug when Crowley is utterly and entirely incoherent, a dadaist masterpiece. 

"Angel, we still haven't had a proper date!"

"Darling! You made my scrubs softer than a feather. And they smell of apples and cinnamon."

Crowley blushes, and he's under Aziraphale, in between Aziraphale's thighs, pants down. The time for blushing has long gone, as far as Aziraphale is concerned. 

Aziraphale changes the topic. And he thinks that this, with disheveled Crowley on Aziraphale's old sofa and between Aziraphale's thighs, with all those notebooks full of plans of their first date, this is the best date Aziraphale has ever had.

"Did your mothers want you to study psychiatry?" Aziraphale kisses Crowley - and remembers that he has asked him a question, but Crowley makes a valiant effort to kiss Aziraphale and answer his question. Aziraphale tucks his head under Crowley's chin. 

"They wanted me to be a florist. To be, and I quote, an enlightened cow. I got so mad… They told me I'd be neurodivergent among the cows too, so I calmed down. I wanted to change the world for the better and spite them. They admire me for it."

***

Crowley is ironing Aziraphale's bedding and talking to the iron. Aziraphale's iron is very impatient and lazy and spits hot water at Crowley every time Crowley lowers that dear sharp beak of a nose to inspect the traitorous fitted sheet. 

"Angel, I think your house hates me."

"No, darling, you're just… you're just so beautiful." Aziraphale says so while reading the latest book Crowley has brought him - a very good edition of Thomas Brown, and Aziraphale _loves_ Thomas Brown. 

"Drives my point home, angel," Crowley grumps. 

"You shouldn't be driving, darling, you should stay."

That's how they start arguing over who should move in with whom.

***

It's a long and frankly boring argument. Aziraphale should move in with Crowley, because Aziraphale is still paying for his mortgage and Crowley's house is his mothers' gift for his birthday. His second birthday, to be precise. 

***

Ela Crowley, nay, Dr Ela Crowley is knighted. She's Dame Ela Crowley and her wife Leah Crowley thinks it's unfair. Leah Crowley, pardon, Dr Leah Crowley is a republican, she's against monarchy and she wears her best punk jeans to the ceremony. No one notices, of course. 

Crowley is pissed and asks doctor-dame-mother Ela why she accepted. 

The esteemed woman huffs. "I wanted to pet the corgis. I wasn't allowed."

Aziraphale thinks he'll never be ready to meet Crowley's mothers. 

"Tony! Tell your whatever other, significant, magnificent, however you consider him, to stop hiding from us. I'm a Dame now. I must have some privileges!"

"The fuck you do!" Dr Leah Crowley shouts. 

Crowley blushes. Aziraphale loves him so much he bloody has to tell him. 

***

"I love you, my dear," Aziraphale says one day. 

He's in a bathroom. He's washing his hands. It's ridiculous.

***

"I love you, my dear boy," Aziraphale says to the stove and to the iron. "Now I'm off to his place and I _will_ tell him."

Neither stove nor iron believe him. 

***

"I love you, angel," Crowley says dreamily as he watches Aziraphale clean up after Crowley tried to make a soup. Again. 

"How dare you?" Aziraphale tosses the burnt and wet rag on the floor. "I practiced! I spoke to a sink. To an iron. To a stove."

"Oh… oh… fuck… I'm sorry."

"Shut up and kiss me! After you order Chinese. Double my dumplings. Really, darling, you're insufferable, and I love you too."

***

"You should move in with me, angel."

For fuck's sake, Aziraphale is too old for this argument, and Crowley's hand is around his cock, and Aziraphale had all the dumplings. 

"Fine… oh, yes, darling, oh, just like that… oh, you wicked thing."

"What's your opinion on pinocytosis?" Crowley asks, nipping at the skin behind Aziraphale's ear, where Aziraphale, according to Aziraphale, smells of old age and ennui. 

"Sweetheart?" Aziraphale manages. Crowley lifts his head.

"I want to suck you off, angel. What's your opinion on that?"

"D… darling, that's not what pinocytosis is!"

"It's the ingestion of liquid into a cell. That's what I want to do…" Crowley absent-mindedly twists his hand and Aziraphale moans. 

"Do… do your cellular thing, darling, just don't stop."

Crowley doesn't. 

"I mean… I want to swallow you whole," Crowley says.

"My love… my love, you're too unaffected."

"Nah, I'm fine. Can I… consume your liquid?"

Aziraphale comes with a laugh. 

"I… I find it unbearably lovely, my beautiful Crowley, that you flirt with me on cellular level."

"I'm thorough," Crowley replies. But he kisses Aziraphale afterwards. And does so for a long time. Insufferable darling, the light of Aziraphale's photosynthesis. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Additional chapter of smut

Damn it all, as they say, Aziraphale moves in with Crowley. 

On that day Crowley buries Aziraphale's iron in Aziraphale's garden, which looks like an abandoned vampire's lair, and just to be sure, spits there and recites some oln Scottish poetry. Their new iron has an iPad. Aziraphale thinks he might regret his decision, but he knows he won't. 

One evening, just moments before Aziraphale has to go to his night shift, he says _I want to be full of cock_. And then he's gone. 

Unbeknownst to him, Crowley has a very long night of Zoom meeting with his moms and their good acquaintance of a proctologist. 

The proctologist had to give Crowley a sex talk when Crowley came out as pansexual and is too old for this shit, ironically. There are so many kinds of lube and condoms, and some of them are bioluminescent! Crowley buys them all. 

Another good acquaintance of his mothers', a sex worker, gives Crowley a prep talk which mostly consists of _you can do it_ , _consent is crucial_ , _relax_. Crowley isn't relaxed at all. 

"So, all your stories of your various conquests, they were all a lie," Dr Leah Crowley concludes at five in the morning. 

Dame Ela Crowley yawns in the background. 

"Well… I wanted to impress you." Crowley plays with his hair.

"Honey, we're lesbians. The cock adventures can never impress us," Leah says softly.

"Let the kid boast," Dame Ela yawns again. "He's insecure. What have we done wrong?"

"I mean… I know where to put it. But it's… Aziraphale!" Crowley argues.

"Yes, well, and he's what, a million years older than you? He must know it all." Leah shrugs. 

"But I want to impress him!"

"Boy!" Ela appears on the camera. "Consent and a lot of lube. What else is there to know? You ever lie to us again, we're gonna hug you in public!"

Crowley ends the call in panic.

***

24 hours later Crowley orders all the dumplings he can and doesn't approach the stove. Or iron. Or his own bloody car. He concentrates on his successes - he found the right dosage to let one of his patients stay alive and keep away from cursing; he found the right medicine for a patient who keeps eating peculiar stuff; he talked a husband out of abandoning his wife because of her early onstage Alzheimer's. He also fantasised about murdering that husband, but it's alright, Bea vandalised his car, so it's fine, it's good, it's taken care of. 

Aziraphale greets Crowley with a soup and a kiss. 

"Darling… what I said last night…"

"I did my research. I can do anything. In theory. Angel. What can I do for you?"

Aziraphale wants to kiss him breathless, so he does. 

There's some reading, some dishwashing, some ironing… Crowley irons Aziraphale's briefs, which isn't something new, but Crowley curses the geometry of Aziraphale's briefs, which is a first. Apparently, Crowley can get really upset with the geometry of things. He swears he's going to summon Gauss and Euler or so help him Newton. Aziraphale takes him to shower and washes his hair. 

"Sweetheart, I was teasing, we don't have to…" Aziraphale begins. He has Crowley trapped in his embrace. 

"But… all the condoms. And bioluminescent lube!" 

"Crowley… oh my sweet boy. How much penetrative sex have you had?"

"None!" Crowley replies valiantly. 

"Darling… do me a favour. Turn over."

"Why?"

"I want to eat you out."

"Really? Like… your tongue… down my… nethers?" 

"For a demon that you are, you're so innocent," Aziraphale smirks and shakes his head. 

"So… your tongue?"

"And fingers," Aziraphale kisses Crowley's shoulder and wiggles those beautiful fingers. "I've never had a good experience, so…"

Crowley needs an exorcist because he wails at the thought of Aziraphale being anything but pleasured.

"So, I want to give you one!" Aziraphale says firmly. Crowley obligingly turns over and lifts his arse. "Beautiful…"

And then he eats Crowley out. He wants his darling, his precious love drown in pleasure - and Crowley does, although he's behaving like a drowning man far too much for Aziraphale's liking. 

Aziraphale carefully turns Crowley over and sucks at his fingers. "You open me, ok, love? I'll tell you what to do…"

Crowley stares at Aziraphale and follows his instructions.

"Do you… play anything?" Aziraphale asks his love when he's breathless with being thoroughly fingered. 

"Yes. Oud. And a lute."

"Ok, I'm an oud then," Aziraphale replies, sinking down on Crowley's cock. "Darling…" And he's crying, and so does Crowley. "Darling, you're so good. So perfect… never had anyone like you."

"Condoms," Crowley reminds. 

"You're a virgin and I'm clean," Aziraphale says. 

"Fair enough. You're beautiful, angel. I… I love you. I fucking love you."

"Move up your hips," Aziraphale instructs. Crowley does. Crowley doesn't expect Aziraphale to moan.

Then they are moving together. Crowley is watching Aziraphale, and Aziraphale is watching Crowley. Watches that sharp clever face getting red and ashamed, then red and mad with desire. 

"Sauntering all over the place… Saunter over me, love, saunter over me…" Aziraphale bends down to kiss Crowley's lips and cheeks and nose and neck. 

"Yes, love, yes, like that, like that, oh, you're so good, my darling boy, the apple of my eye, my one and only."

Crowley is crying but his hands are sure on Aziraphale's hips. 

"Yes… oh… oh…" And it's just moans and praises from then on. Crowley reaches out for Aziraphale's cock, but his hand is snapped away. "No… you. Just you inside me. That's all I want. That's all…"

Crowley comes inside Aziraphale with a cry - and then he's possessed, he's lost… He kisses Aziraphale, then moves and turns and shifts until he can eat Aziraphale out, tasting them both.

"Darling… oh…. Darling. What are you doing to me…"

"Should I stop angel?" 

"Fuck! Never."

Crowley grins and keeps tasting them both. 

"Angel?" He calls afterwards, holding Aziraphale. 

"Yes, my sweet?"

"It's… I love you. I… I love you so much."

"Oh, my love… oh, I know. I know, darling." Aziraphale kisses the underside of Crowley's jaw.

"Just… we live together… and… are you happy with me?"

"Crowley… darling… my Anthony. Of course I am. I couldn't… I didn't even hope I'd find you… I didn't know I was looking for you. You're mine now. I am yours, too."

What is old age if not an ability to feel secure and confident, whatever the odds? To Aziraphale, his old age means - suddenly - that he has Crowley and that Crowley has him. 

"Angel… My angel…"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning! Don't drink anything while you're reading. But stay hydrated all the same.

Aziraphale is waiting for his beautiful darling, his smart love etc etc, to join him for lunch, yet instead of his lanky red-haired beloved, he's joined by Bea, who's also lanky, but has black hair, fierce eyes and the air of something evil about them. They look at the food Aziraphale has made for his… you know how it goes.

"Looks good." They grab a fork and take a bite. "Tastes good too… oh shit. Sorry." They look a bit guilty. "I know… I know I'm not supposed to…"

"It's alright," Aziraphale comforts them after a moment of righteous anger. It's not something evil about Bea, he realises. Bea is different, and that's about it. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind sharing."

"I'm starving, so it's not sharing…" They seem to consider. "He's having a long and tedious meeting. I think I can eat his lunch."

Aziraphale makes a mental note to cook for Bea too. "You eat, my dear. Crowley had to come on time in order to get it," he winks at Bea. Bea stares at him - and attacks the lasagna with so much anger that Aziraphale wonders if it has offended them personally. Maybe borrowed some money and never returned it.

"It's a bit bland," Aziraphale says apologetically. 

"Good. Hate it when the taste is all over the place." Bea eats messily. It's not just hunger, Aziraphale thinks, it's that they couldn't give a damn about food the way Aziraphale does. 

"There's something I wanted to talk about," Bea says as they finish shoving food into their mouth and move to wash the container.

"Oh, dear, don't. I like it when it smells of my soap." Aziraphale stops them with a gentle touch on their elbow.

"A man after my dearest friend's heart." They smirk, then their face falls. 

"What is it?" Aziraphale asks.

"My parents used to say I don't have a heart."

"Can't Crowley arrange for their eternal inconvenience?" Aziraphale asks with an indignant huff. 

"Well… They did it themselves. They had me. Nevermind. It's not… I… he's going to work himself into whatever unpleasant thing. Think of the most unpleasant thing."

Aziraphale pales, thinking of Gabriel, who's not strictly speaking a thing, since even things have value.

"Anyway. He needs a holiday. So do I. Please. Take him somewhere sappy and romantic. Get a ring, maybe." Bea looks Aziraphale in the eye, but it feels forced and too much because Bea doesn't even blink. "I could cut off his finger, bring it over to you and then sew it back, but you live together, so you can do it yourself."

Aziraphale pales once again. 

"His moms wouldn't approve though… Hey, I'm not heartless. I wouldn't do it without anaesthesia!" Bea raises their hands in defense. 

"You've met his moms?" Aziraphale asks. Bea chuckles. 

"I have. See… Crowley dragged me to them, saying it's meeting his moms and getting some… acknowledgement - or getting back to my parents and probably killing them without anaesthesia." Bea pauses for a moment, looking at Aziraphale, waiting for a reaction. It doesn't come. Aziraphale watches them fondly. "Anyway, they… they hired me to be Crowley's caregiver. It gave me freedom to never see my parents again. They… they fought for me, his moms. Dr Ela Crowley is a true fucking knight. So is Dr Leah Crowley, but she's a punk. I could help arrange everything, if you want. Just tell me what you need. I know I need two weeks in my flat without a single person to interact with."

"I agree with you, my dear, we do need some rest… I'm sure Crowley would let you take two weeks off regardless."

"Not leaving him." 

"You're a treasure, Bea. I hope you know it."

Bea looks offended, but only for a second. Then they melt and smile shyly. "I do know his ring size anyway. Took some measurements the day you two met."

"He still has all his fingers, so it was a good job!" Aziraphale praises. 

"I'm glad you counted," Bea replies seriously. "Ligur and Michael are getting married, you know. Make an honest man out of my brother, nurse Aziraphale." Bea slide off their chair. "I have a car to vandalise. That bugger who wanted to abandon his wife, he hasn't learned and got angry at her for not remembering his name today."

Aziraphale knows who Bea is talking about. He smiles, all teeth and righteous anger. "My dear… we should make the damage permanent. Make him believe he's losing his memory too… Force some… some fucking empathy down his throat."

Since they need some assistance, they recruit Hastur as well. He brings some knitting needles and, admittedly, a Swiss army knife as well. The leak they make will take some time to be noticed, but before that the bastard will always think he's filled his tank just the other day. 

Hastur and Aziraphale have to persuade Bea  _ not  _ to scratch anything on the car… But Bea suggests a few Welsh curses, and well, Hastur hands Bea one of the knitting needles. 

A week later the man believes he's losing his mind or that he's possessed by a demon, and he looks for shelter and care by his wife's side. She doesn't remember his name, but she's very fond of him. 

Crowley makes an angry face - then lifts two thumbs up. 

***

Aziraphale carefully suggests a holiday one evening. It helps that Crowley is a dadaist masterpiece after some invasive sex, as he puts it.

"Penetrative. Not invasive, my dear." Aziraphale kisses Crowley's neck. 

"Penetrative is invasive. It's a totally invasive treatment. I need more."

"I'm an old man, love, please…"

"Ngk," Crowley replies. He can barely move, to Aziraphale's smug pleasure. 

"And anyway. What would you say to a getaway? Just the two of us, probably the sea,  _ very  _ little clothing."

"The sea tends to be very naked," Crowley says pensively. 

"We could be just like the sea…" Aziraphale kisses Crowley's neck some more. It's a very kissable neck. Crowley's breath hitches so sweetly… 

"Does it mean I get some fish?"

"Do you mean… swimming inside you?" Aziraphale looks at his love. He can't breathe with how much he loves this man. Just a few hours earlier Aziraphale cheered him on as Crowley caused another - albeit minor - fire trying to make soup. And he succeeded. They won't need to buy another pan this week, which is a win, by all means. 

"Yeah… Some octopi too…"

Aziraphale growls. He's an old man, alright, but no fish or cephalopod gets to swim inside his darling. 

"Just me, love," he warns. 

"Oh… oh, get that sea cucumber of yours inside me, angel."

"Darling, I love you, but your flirting… your flirting is fine," Aziraphale concedes. 

He does google sea cucumbers when Crowley is asleep. He looks down at his very tired cock. He might wish it looked as… peculiar as a sea cucumber. And sea cucumbers are all soft and squishy, while Aziraphale can get truly  _ hard.  _

He ends up his evening watching some endlessly weird porn. 

Well, it's not porn. It's some videos of sea cucumbers. And to think, there are fish that hide in their anus! Amazing. 

"Something is terribly… right with me!" Aziraphale exclaims. 

Crowley stirs in his sleep and hugs Aziraphale tighter. "Octopi… octopi stole my milk," Crowley mutters in his sleep. 

"It's alright, darling, they are definitely lactose intolerant, they'll regret it," Aziraphale coos.

"Oh… oh, fine… good… evil octopi… Magnificent. Evil…"

Aziraphale looks back at his phone. It's late, yes, but he needs to google some engagement rings and cozy cottages to rent. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update bc I love you all!!! Be careful, there's smut

The cottage is cozy, the ring is in Aziraphale's pocket and Crowley is immediately naked. He waves his arms in the air with triumph, which isn't lasting, unfortunately. 

"I can't walk to the beach naked," Crowley remarks.

"I'm really sorry, my love, but you can't." Aziraphale is sorry indeed. Crowley is beautiful when he's naked. He's beautiful all the bloody time. Aziraphale can't help but hold him and kiss him and caress him and breathe him in. 

"We're in no hurry to go down to the beach. I could go down on you, though."

It's embarrassing how easily Crowley melts into Aziraphale's touch. He's all pliant and responsive, he breathes out soft  _ oh _ s and  _ ah _ s and  _ more _ s and  _ yes _ . Aziraphale's fingers are strong but careful on Crowley's hips. Crowley's cock tastes like the sea in Aziraphale's mouth. Crowley trembles and ripples. Crowley is tender, his hands are gentle in Aziraphale's curls. 

The air is cold around them, but both men ignore it, they have their own weather in between them, and rest assured, it's just as unpredictable as any regular weather, but it's all lovely, it's all pleasant. 

"Angel… my angel… angel…" Crowley is suspended in the air. His feet are on the floor, but it's Aziraphale who's holding him up, keeping him standing. 

When Crowley is nothing but an endless ripple, Aziraphale helps him sit on a nearby piece of furniture (it's a chest of drawers), moves his mouth further down, over Crowley's balls, right to Crowley's hole. 

"You…" Aziraphale says, "you're a sea cucumber. And I'm that fish that hides in its anus. I can flirt just as terribly."

"Hide anywhere you want, angel… my angel. I'm all yours to hide in. I'm all yours."

Technically, Aziraphale is already on his knees, so from a certain point of view, proposing right now would save him a lot of effort, but Crowley would agree to anything with Aziraphale's tongue in his arse, and coincidentally, with Aziraphale's tongue in Crowley's arse, Aziraphale can't propose verbally. His Sign is rusty and Crowley isn't particularly high-functioning. He's just barely functioning enough to meowl, groan, weep, wail and beg for more. 

He is also more than a little cold, so Aziraphale does the impossible and stops.

"Angel… angel… what… what's wrong…"

Aziraphale carries Crowley to the bedroom. "You're cold, darling…"

"No… no, I'm hot!"

"You're very hot, my love, but you're also freezing." Aziraphale snuggles up to Crowley and pulls a heavy blanket over them. "My fingers will have to do for now, love." 

"They won't," Crowley responds. "No lube."

"Then I'll suffocate," Aziraphale agrees and scoots down under the blanket to continue his… ehm… hiding in Crowley's anus. 

"No one eats sea cucumbers, because they are too disgusting," Crowley suddenly says. No, he sobs it out. Aziraphale comes out for air and an argument. 

"Love, you're perfect. You're wonderful. I thought I was too old, too… too boring, but there you are, my peculiar creature. You've got me, I've got you, I love you. Lord, I thought I wouldn't ever be able to love, but here you are, my darling…" Aziraphale hastily removes all his clothes and holds Crowley again, holds him with a purpose, holds him to make them both feel how they fit, how they are so, so, so compatible. There isn't a world where they are anything else. There's no policy, no law, no rule strong enough to keep them apart.

"Ain't no mountain high enough," Crowley sings softly.

"Indeed. Indeed, my love."

Eventually Crowley is the one to move away and fetch the lube. Crowley is the one to slide inside Aziraphale and kiss him breathless when he starts moving. 

It's hot, it's wet, there's the sea underneath them, there's a thunderstorm above them, there's a maelstrom in between them. It's all weather, it's all chaos, it's all unpredictable, but it's theirs and theirs alone. 

Aziraphale hasn't prayed for ages, but he does pray when Crowley is in the shower and Aziraphale is lingering before joining him. 

***

Aziraphale insists that he's the one cooking. Crowley's task is to be handsome and watch Aziraphale with those short-sighted yellow eyes, foggy and sleepy and fond.

"When I saw you," Crowley begins one morning, "I thought, ok, I'll… I'll get over you. My first thought was that I'll get over you. But then I saw you every day and I missed you when I couldn't see you. I think I'd wait for you forever, but I didn't have to, angel… thank you. I would have been a much more bitter and miserable person, were it not for you coming into my office that night."

Aziraphale is trying very hard to keep their breakfast from burning, but damn them eggs, he pulls Crowley into a kiss. 

"I wouldn't be able to hold on for much longer. You're… oh darling, there's no one like you. No one flirts as badly as you. I love you. Fuck breakfast."

"Don't fuck breakfast, angel. Fuck me."

Aziraphale has enough presence of mind to turn the stove off before he does just that. 

***

They walk to the beach and Crowley insists on walking into the cold water. Aziraphale holds out his old creamy cardigan for Crowley's feet when that demon hops out of the water. 

Makes sense to kneel right there… oh, he's kneeling right now but Crowley's feet are fucking blue!..

***

If Crowley finds a shell, Aziraphale gets a lecture on paleontology. It's good, it is, very educational, if a bit unhinged, but it doesn't make the whole proposal thing easier, even when Crowley is talking about mating in… Aziraphale has lost that line of thought. 

"Aziraphale, am I boring you?"

"Boring me? Darling, no! Just got lost in my thoughts!"

"Such as?"

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, at the way the wind plays with his hair, at the way those eyebrows move closer to form a frown, at those pale lips, at those endless legs and arms. 

"Crowley…"

"Angel? Yes, angel?"

"Marry me." 

Aziraphale realises that he has left the ring in his other trousers. 

"I… you… you really? You? You, you, you, beautiful you? Marry you? Oh…" Crowley drops into the sand. 

"It had to be perfect, darling."

"It is perfect, angel… oh, my angel. You want to marry me."

To spare everyone further embarrassment, Aziraphale kisses him.

***

Later that evening Aziraphale realises that he can no longer avoid meeting Crowley's moms. 

Fuck.


	10. Chapter 10

Dr Ela Crowley is a tall woman with a strict face, white hair and is wearing a three-piece suit. 

Dr Leah Crowley has emerald green hair, equally green eyes and is wearing her best punk jeans and a somewhat undermining cashmere sweater. Black. She is petite, but Aziraphale is more afraid of her than of Dr Ela Crowley. 

Both doctors stand by the door of their townhouse and take in the sight which is their smitten boy and his scared shitless and much older boyfriend, i.e. Aziraphale. And oh good Lord, his name is Aziraphale. He hasn't ever resented his parents for naming him so, probably because he's had enough reasons to resent them even without the name thing. 

"Boy," Ela says.

"Boyfriend," Leah says at the same time. 

"Yes," Crowley replies breathlessly, squishing Aziraphale's hand. Then he frowns. "No. Not boyfriend! We're engaged!" Crowley shines upon Aziraphale like the stubborn morning sun whose rays slash every curtain on their way. It's both glorious and a bit annoying. 

"And is there a reason you're so happy about it?" Leah asks.

"Darling, he's in love," Ela reminds her wife. 

"Oh. Right. In love. Fine. I could work with that." Leah walks inside the house.

"Pardon. She's overwhelmed," Ela smiles. "Let's go inside too." And she walks inside too.

"Alright there, angel?" Crowley asks.

"I might die, but I'm alright, darling. Please, don't leave my side."

"Oh, never. You're stuck with me." Crowley kisses Aziraphale's cheek. He's soft and he's strong, he's like a wire that way. Aziraphale can endure two fearsome doctors for the sake of Crowley. 

"Happily so, darling." They kiss. 

"Can you take this… snogging thing inside?" Leah demands. Aziraphale giggles and Crowley kisses him some more. They are very embarrassing and proud of it.

***

Oh, of course Ela and Leah have a lot of stories about Crowley, their most wonderful son, setting things on fire. Aziraphale shares a few of his own too. Crowley blushes, everyone else is having a laugh, and then Leah says very seriously:

"You keep him out of trouble."

Aziraphale swears he will. He gazes at Crowley longingly as he says that. He honestly doesn't know how he got so lucky. 

Crowley chooses to continue blushing, while his  _ fiance _ and his moms talk about healthcare, about the changes Crowley brought to Eden, about Gabriel - to Crowley's horror - and Ela remarks through her teeth that Gabriel was a dishonour to the medical community, not that there is any, but she hopes Aziraphale knows what she means. Before Aziraphale can nod, Leah attests that he does. 

All in all, the evening is going on very well. Leah insists they stay the night, and Aziraphale finds himself unable to resist: there's something primal, something incredibly safe about sleeping next to Crowley in his old bedroom, in his old home, where they are kept safe by two women who would protect their own with their wit and claws and teeth.

"They are quite magnificent, my darling. I'm honoured they trust me enough to let me be your husband… And… darling, it feels as if I had a family."

"But you do, angel," Crowley says dreamily. He's tucked under Aziraphale's chin, he has all his limbs around Aziraphale, it's all quiet, it's all… safe. It's so safe. 

"I'm too old to feel protected when there are moms around," Aziraphale muses.

"No one is ever old enough for that, angel," Crowley replies, half-asleep. "It's very comforting, you know, to have moms around. They'll… they'll never let anything come to me. To you. We're safely hidden here… we could all sleep here forever and be happy in our dreams…" 

"Darling, you're asleep."

"I might be… does it matter?"

"No, not at all." Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley's head. 

***

Breakfast is a quiet and good-natured affair. Ela and Aziraphale argue about tea, Leah refuses to let Crowley anywhere near the coffee machine. Aziraphale and Leah cook, Ela and Crowley eat the food dutifully and praise it. Everyone smiles. 

"Yours is a happy place," Aziraphale says.

"Well, we made it so," Ela replies. "He's… he's happy with you, and you're ok with him being, well… his impossibly lovely self."

Aziraphale gives her a smitten smile. No, this visit is embarrassing, but he can't stop thinking about the safety of this house, about its calm, its quiet… Oh, it's all a cliche! Aziraphale doesn't know how to describe it, doesn't find the words to express this… this… all of this. He feels like a whale - and as if he's inside of one, safe and sound, despite any evidence to the contrary.

***

On their drive back to their own home, Aziraphale rests his head on Crowley's shoulder. 

"Thank you, darling… thank you…" Aziraphale doesn't specify, but he doesn't need to - Crowley… Crowley knows. It's the most beautiful thing about Crowley, more beautiful than his cheekbones, his eyes, his wicked, naughty, sincere smile. Crowley knows.

***

Ela calls Aziraphale a few days after the visit. "Thought you could use a friend," she says softly. "We're… we're really happy for you and for the boy. He's pretty when he's smitten. Didn't know that about him."

Aziraphale can talk about Crowley for hours, which is perfect, as far as Ela (and begrudgingly, Leah) is concerned: she can listen about their boy for hours. 

Aziraphale talks to Ela often and less often, to Leah. He talks to them every time Crowley is at work and Aziraphale isn't. They talk and they talk and they talk. They share embarrassing stories about Crowley, but Aziraphale is alright with sharing with his in-laws that he had left the engagement ring behind when he intended to propose. 

Ela laughs at that. Leah cries so hard… 

***

And sometimes Crowley is angry. Sometimes he says Aziraphale teamed up with Crowley's moms against Crowley. Sometimes he yells and gets really angry. 

Aziraphale stills him with a well placed hug. Crowley apologises, profusely and ashamedly, hiding his face from Aziraphale in Aziraphale's arms. 

"You're a secret rose to me, my dear boy. You open up to me, in your happiness and in your anger. You shine painfully when you're upset. I love you. I don't make any sense."

Crowley kisses his wrists and his neck then. He holds Aziraphale tight and right. "Please, never make any sense when we're together, alright?"

***

And when Aziraphale is unwell, Crowley calls his moms in panic. He manages to follow the chicken soup recipe that his moms adapt for him. Nothing is on fire by the end of the ordeal, and the soup is good enough to make Aziraphale moan. 

All in all, it's a very good year and it's just the first.


End file.
